Chapter Three #2
Elettra set down her coffee. “Fear is useful when it tells you something specific.
Don't touch a hot stove. Don't walk into traffic.
Don't assume a man with a gun won't use it because he's speaking politely.
Being frightened of Taddeo in every possible way won't help you. Understanding what kind of man he is might.”
“And what kind is that?”
“Controlled. Stubborn. Very fond of believing that responsibility gives him authority.” Elettra spread marmalade over a corner of toast. “He also usually means what he says.”
Isolde thought of the night before. You're leverage. They're prison rules. I don't know what happens if Corwin never comes back.
“The honesty isn't especially comforting.”
“I didn't say it was.”
“You don't approve of this.”
Elettra's expression changed very slightly. “Whether I approve doesn't alter the fact that you're here. I can make sure you have what you need. I can answer questions when the answers belong to me. And I can tell Taddeo when he's being unreasonable.”
“Does he listen?”
“Sometimes.”
“How encouraging.”
Elettra smiled faintly into her coffee. “It could be worse.”
“I'm beginning to suspect that's the family motto.”
After breakfast, Isolde carried her own plate to the sink despite Elettra telling her not to bother, then resumed her examination of Northglass with more restraint than enthusiasm.
She found the library, a formal dining room, a sitting room facing the gardens, and several doors fitted with electronic locks.
The south terrace gave her a view of the grounds, but what had looked almost inviting from upstairs ended in steep cliffs above black rocks and white water.
A man appeared on the lower terrace within a few minutes of her stepping outside.
He didn't approach her or tell her to go back in.
He simply remained visible enough to make his purpose clear.
By the time Isolde returned inside, she understood three things: the obvious exits were watched, the sea was not an escape route, and Northglass had been designed by people who preferred preventing problems to reacting to them.
That was enough for one morning.
Taddeo's office was near the end of the western corridor behind an ordinary dark-wood door.
He had specifically told her not to enter it.
The door was unlocked.
Isolde passed it once on her way toward the library. She passed it again several minutes later.
The third time, she stopped.
Entering would undoubtedly satisfy the childish part of her that wanted to violate one of Taddeo's rules simply because he had imposed it. More importantly, his office was the most likely place in the house to contain information about Corwin.
She opened the door.
The room looked exactly like she would have expected from the man who had taken her.
Built-in shelves occupied one wall. Tall windows faced the ocean.
A broad desk sat near the center with two monitors, a closed laptop, a leather folio, and several stacks of documents arranged with almost irritating precision.
Isolde stayed away from the computer.
She didn't open drawers.
A document lying faceup on the desk carried a heading large enough to read from several feet away.
MARITIME HOLDINGS — QUARTERLY—
“I'm assuming you know this is my office.”
Taddeo's voice came from behind her.
Isolde felt her shoulders tense before she turned.
He stood in the doorway in dark trousers and a white shirt, no jacket, looking as though he had already been awake and working for several hours. His eyes moved from her to the paper on the desk.
“You told me not to come in,” she said.
“I did.”
“I remembered.”
“That normally implies the next part.”
“I wanted to see what happened if I ignored you.”
Taddeo crossed the room, turned the exposed document facedown, and aligned it neatly with the papers beneath it. “Did you touch the computer?”
“No.”
“Open anything?”
“No.”
“Take anything?”
“No. I read the heading you left visible. If that was secret, I think responsibility gets complicated.”
His eyes lifted to hers. “You're very comfortable assigning responsibility in my office.”
“I'm comfortable assigning responsibility almost anywhere.”
Something moved at the corner of his mouth.
He sat behind the desk. “I'm going to start locking this.”
“That's probably sensible.”
“I thought you might object.”
“I'm not asking you to make it easy.”
Taddeo studied her for several seconds, and Isolde disliked the feeling that resistance interested him more than it irritated him.
She pulled one of the chairs away from the desk but didn't sit. “I want to see the evidence against Corwin.”
His expression became more neutral. “Why?”
“Because you're holding me because of it.”
“You already know the important part.”
“I know what you've told me.” She rested her fingers along the back of the chair. “That's not the same thing.”
“Some of it won't mean much to you.”
“You might be surprised what becomes meaningful when your brother is missing and someone kidnaps you over eight million dollars.”
“Eight point four.”
Isolde stared at him. “Thank God you're here to protect the accuracy of the situation.”
Taddeo looked toward the window for half a second, then stood and crossed to a locked cabinet behind his desk. He entered a code with his body angled enough that she couldn't see it and returned with a thin black folder.
“You read it here.”
“I wasn't planning to take it upstairs.”
She sat.
The first pages contained internal account summaries, transfer records, authorization logs, and system-access reports.
Isolde wasn't an accountant, but documentation behaved according to recognizable rules regardless of subject.
Dates. Names. Originating accounts. Recipient entities. Authentication records.
Then she saw the number.
$8,400,000.
Printed on paper, it looked worse.
She turned another page.
C. DACRE — AUTHORIZED CONSULTANT
Beneath Corwin's name sat an employee identifier, an access history, and a sequence showing his credentials entering a restricted system shortly after eleven at night. Transfers followed within minutes.
Isolde read the entries once.
Then again.
“What is this?” She pointed near the authentication record.
Taddeo shifted his chair closer. “A physical security device assigned to your brother.”
“So someone needed that and his password.”
“Under normal circumstances.”
“What counts as abnormal?”
“Compromised authentication. A copy sophisticated enough to fool the system. Someone getting access to the device before he disappeared.”
“You checked those possibilities?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“We haven't found evidence of them.”
She looked over at him. “That isn't the same as saying they didn't happen.”
“No.”
Again, the lack of argument bothered her.
She returned to the file.
“When did he leave work?”
“His building card recorded him entering the garage at nine fifty-one. Cameras caught his vehicle leaving shortly after.”
“And these transfers begin at eleven-oh-seven.”
“Yes.”
“Remote?”
“Yes.”
“From his laptop?”
“From a device carrying his assigned signature.”
She glanced up. “That isn't quite the same answer.”
“No.”
“So you can't prove he was sitting there.”
“No.”
The evidence was bad.
Isolde wasn't going to insult herself by pretending otherwise. Corwin's credentials had been used. His authentication appeared in the records. A device signature tied to him had authorized the transfers. He had disappeared the same night.
Her instinct wanted to reject all of it because Corwin was her brother.
Affection wasn't analysis.
“He could have done it,” she said quietly.
Taddeo remained still. “Yes.”
“I didn't say he did.”
“I heard you.”
Isolde looked back down.
The timestamps bothered her.
Eleven-oh-seven. Eleven-eleven. Eleven-fourteen. Eleven-seventeen. Eleven-twenty-one. Access approved. Transfer authorized. Funds moved. Everything fell into place with almost mechanical neatness.
She flipped back several pages.
Then forward.
Taddeo waited.
“What?” he asked eventually.
“It's too clean.”
His attention sharpened. “Explain.”
“I don't know that it means anything.”
“Explain anyway.”